Partnerships Can Kill: The Third Charlie Parker Mystery (8 page)

Pedro, on the other hand, is a skinny little
rail. He always wears white. White shirt, white pants, white apron,
and in winter, a funny little white knit cap that he pulls on over
his graying hair. He has lots of kindly wrinkles around his eyes,
and deep smile lines on either side of his mouth. His hands are
beginning to become warped with arthritis. He had stepped behind
the bar, and returned now with a margarita for me.

"This one on the house," he said, "to welcome
you home."

I wanted to protest, knowing they barely
scratched out a living from the little place, but I knew it would
offend him. Pedro is one of those generous souls who is most happy
when he can do a favor for someone else.

He continued to fuss around me, bringing
flatware and napkin, making a show of dusting the crumbs off my
chair. Like Manny, I have my regular table here. Mine is tucked
into a corner, on the opposite side of the room from his. That's
not saying much. The place is only about forty feet square, and at
least half of that is taken up by the bar, a heavy wooden carved
affair from Mexico. That leaves space for only six tables. Pedro
suggested this one to me because it's far enough into the shadowy
corner that Rusty can lie down beside my chair without attracting
the attention of anyone who's not used to seeing a dog in a food
establishment.

The margarita was perfection. Lightly foamy
on top, the rim of the glass crisp with salt crystals. My tongue
puckered slightly as I took the first sip. The drink was cold and
tart. I could feel tiny clumps of salt crystals at the corners of
my upper lip, and I lapped them off with my tongue. Heaven.

"Dinner," Concha sang out. She carried the
hot plate with a folded towel. "You look hungry tonight, so I made
three."

The three rolled enchiladas stuffed with
tender chicken meat were invisible beneath the blanket of melted
cheese, green chile sauce, and two dollops of sour cream. A
scattering of lettuce and freshly chopped tomato covered the whole
steaming platter. I could see the cheese still bubbling around the
perimeter where the broiler had turned the edges crisp. Experience
had taught me not to dig right in. First I cut into the side of one
of the enchiladas, releasing a delicate tendril of steam. The smell
made my saliva glands go into overdrive, while my eyes watered
slightly from the pungency of the green chile. I finished every
bite.

I had gained five pounds on my trip to
Hawaii, thanks to the wonderful dinners supplied by Drake Langston.
I had promised myself that I would get into some kind of exercise
program when I got back but obviously I hadn't done it yet. Now
this. I really would have to get serious. Maybe once I'd solved the
David Ruiz case.

It was almost ten before Rusty and I got away
from Pedro's. The place was dead quiet once the boisterous Manny
left, so Pedro, Concha, and I sat together awhile longer, catching
up. Finally, I had to let them go. I knew they must have lots of
kitchen cleanup to do before calling it a night. Luckily, they
don't have far to travel to get home. They live at the back of the
restaurant in a little apartment they've constructed out of what
probably used to be the storeroom. With their one daughter grown
and gone, it's just right for the two of them.

I was tempted to leave the Jeep and walk
home—the exercise would have done me good. But, the thought of
coming back for it in the morning cooled me down. Besides, this
isn't the safest neighborhood for a woman to go walking late at
night. Even with Rusty at my side, I don't feel entirely at ease in
the dark places between street lights.

There was a stack of mail waiting in the box,
which I'd forgotten to check for two days, so I stayed up awhile,
drinking a cup of tea and paying a few bills. I finally hit the
sack around midnight, and for some reason, was wide awake at
six.

I kept thinking about Michael's comment that
he thought David might be worried about money. The phone messages
I'd seen on his desk from the IRS might bear that out. I felt like
I needed to go back and have another look at his desk. Now that I
had a direction to take, Sharon might provide some further insight
as well.

The heavenly smells of fried meats, onions,
and coffee greeted me when I arrived at the restaurant.
Unfortunately, I still felt stuffed from the night before. I did
accept a cup of coffee from Sharon, as she let me into David's
office once again.

The place appeared untouched since the last
time I'd been there. Apparently the police had made their decision
without a whole lot of checking into David's life. The messages
from Tom McDonald at the IRS were still where I'd left them. I
wondered if Sharon would mind if I called the man under the guise
of being the accountant for the restaurant. It would be a way of
finding out whether the business was involved or not. It was still
early, though. Maybe I'd be better off to search through the mess
in the office a bit further first.

I opened the lower desk drawer and ran my
fingers through the file folders inside. One was labeled "taxes."
Inside, I hit the jackpot. The restaurant had received two notices
by mail of an impending audit. They were dated three months
earlier. The phone calls had probably come because David had not
responded to the audit notices. I was glad I'd discovered this
before calling and making a fool of myself. I wondered what other
little surprises the files would yield.

Specifically, I was interested in seeing the
financials for the business. I found it odd that the IRS would
already be getting around to an audit for a business that had only
existed for a year. They don't normally move that fast. Unless
there was something obvious to arouse their suspicions. I rummaged
through the rest of the files in the drawer, but didn't come across
any income statements or balance sheets. A similar search of the
clutter on the desktop didn't turn them up either.

By this time, the breakfast crowd had pretty
well thinned out, so I took Sharon aside.

"Did David keep financial records any place
besides this room?" I asked.

She looked thoughtful for a minute. "I don't
think so. He did all his work here. I'm not sure I ever saw him
even take anything home to do on a weekend, or anything."

I thought about the apartment. There hadn't
been any filing cabinets, and the small desk had contained only
personal papers.

"Were you aware that the IRS had initiated an
audit of the business?" I asked Sharon

Her eyes drifted toward the floor. I wasn't
sure whether I just imagined the slight hesitancy.

"You mean the phone messages on his desk? I
assumed that had something to do with David's personal taxes. I
didn't think the business was being audited."

Something about her statement sounded weak to
me. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I sensed she wasn't being a
hundred percent open about this. Had she and David been up to some
funny business with the books?

Chapter 11

"I need to find copies of the financials,
Sharon. I've searched the desk drawer and the mess here on top. Do
you have any other ideas?"

She shook her head. "What would this have to
do with David's death, anyway?"

"Maybe everything." My voice came out
sounding harsher than I had intended, but dammit, I hate it when
people close up. "His cousin tells me that David was very nervous
about something. He got the feeling it was something
financial."

I held out the IRS notices, and looked her
straight in the eyes. "Look, I didn't know David at all, so I'm
having to go by what everyone else tells me. Most people deal with
life's little financial crises, and somehow they cope. But some
people just can't handle it. David might have felt the whole thing
closing in on him, and he might have seen suicide as the only way
out. I know you don't want it to turn out that way, but it might
just be what happened."

Her facial muscles remained motionless, but
two large puddles formed in her lower eyelids. I waited. Sometimes
silence is the best way to obligate the other person to speak.

Finally, her shoulders sagged. "I don't know
about any of this, Charlie," she said, a sob escaping between the
words. "David kept most of the financial aspects of this business
to himself. I know I should have paid more attention, but I just
couldn't find the time. Charlie, you don't know what it takes to
keep a restaurant going. Getting good help is the worst part. Just
about the time you think you have a good crew, and everything is
running all right, someone quits. You can't imagine how many times
I've ended up waiting tables, or even cooking, because some little
twit decided she couldn't handle the job any more, and called at
six o'clock that morning to let me know she wouldn't be back. So
I'd do her job all day, supervise the kitchen, do the shopping,
check the inventory on staples, balance the cash drawer. By the
time I get home at night, I'm exhausted. In the beginning I'd take
the reports home and try to study them, but I don't understand that
stuff, and it made my head hurt to try and make sense of them.
Maybe I trusted David too far, but I just couldn't do it all."

She had slumped down in David's chair, and
propped her elbows on the desk, her forehead in her hands. She was
right—I couldn't imagine all that went into running a restaurant. I
felt guilty for doubting her. Awkwardly, I patted her on the
shoulder, feeling badly because I'm not one of those people who
dispenses hugs and comfort easily. I let her sit there in silence a
few minutes before bringing up the subject again. This time, I
tried to make my voice gentle.

"For your sake, Sharon, we have to find out
the state of things around here. This IRS man isn't going to give
up just because no one ever returns his calls. If you'd like, I
could call him, explain about David's death, and tell him we're
trying to put the records together. They aren't all that cold and
unfeeling. At least it will give you a little breather."

She agreed, sending a weak smile my way—the
first I'd seen in awhile.

"Okay, now review with me exactly who did
what. David showed you some reports. Did he produce those reports
himself? Were they hand written, or did he do them on the computer?
Did anyone else ever review the reports—a CPA or attorney?"

Now that we were getting to some hard facts,
she sat straighter in the chair, and calmed down.

"David did the reports himself, on the
computer. He had a CPA, Ben Murray, who did the tax returns. I
think Ben reviewed the financial reports periodically, too, but I'm
not sure. I couldn't stand Ben Murray. He's kind of, well, sleazy.
I don't know how to describe it, but I didn't like being in the
same room with him. I let David deal with him." She looked up at me
again. "I guess I shouldn't have, huh?"

"It's okay, Sharon. What's done is done. I
just need to figure out what's going on now. If David had printed
reports, they have to be somewhere. I need to see them. Any
ideas?"

"You could try going to see Ben Murray. I'll
warn you though, wear protective bullshit gear."

We laughed, the tension broken.

I looked up Murray's address in the phone
book, and discovered it wouldn't be too far out of my way to stop
at Dr. Casper's office first.

Linda Casper had been in my class in high
school. Despite being probably the smartest of the whole bunch, she
was down-to-earth. A good friend. With her head for learning and
her natural bedside manner there was never any doubt she'd make a
top-notch doctor. Now, just a couple of years out of med school,
though, it was still a struggle. She'd gone in with two older
physicians, in hopes of building her practice. It would come—just a
matter of time.

When I signed the clipboard at the reception
desk I noticed there were only two other patients listed for Dr.
Casper. Both had already come and gone. I found myself worrying
about her. Most people think becoming a doctor is an automatic
ticket to riches, but I knew better. I'd watched Linda sign those
loan papers to get through school. It would be years before she
broke even. Especially as a family practitioner, where even the
best ones sometimes barely make it.

"Charlie!" Her infectious grin warmed the
examining room. At five foot four, Linda is somewhat on the bosomy
side, soft in all the right places for hugging a hurt child. Her
short blond curls are the wash and wear variety, and her bright
blue eyes go naturally with the faint freckles visible under her
makeup.

"What are you in for this time?" she
asked.

She consulted my folder, where her nurse had
made notes about the appointment. "Removing sutures?"

She stared over the tops of her beige rimmed
reading glasses. "Charlie, Charlie, Charlie," she tsked. She set
the folder down, and her hands went to her ample hips. "What ever
am I going to do with you?"

"Oh hush, Linda, and pull 'em out," I said
with mock annoyance. I lifted my hair up, giving her a clear
view.

She reached for a pair of shiny surgical
scissors and some tweezers.

"What was it this time? Doesn't look like a
good clean-cut knife wound." Snip, snip. I felt a small tug.

"A wrench."

"Oh, okay." Snip, snip, tug. "Are you ever
going to give up these quests of yours, this insatiable need to
help out the underdog?" Snip, snip.

"I doubt it."

She twisted her upper body around to look me
in the eye. "I'll bet you're working on another one right now,
aren't you?"

"Well..."

"I knew it! I ought to suture you to this
table."

"What? And take all the fun out of life?"

She laid the instruments down on the formica
counter top with a little more force than necessary. I turned to
see if she was really angry. Her head shook slowly back and forth,
her mouth puckered into a resigned little grin.